


In the Hall of the Mountain King

by seperis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The once and future Master upon his succession.  Crowley is not a fool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Hall of the Mountain King

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Game of God](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592838) by [seperis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis). 



> A super-early Christmas present to DtA readers who wanted another snippet of this. Yes, my project sucks like whoa, but that does have the advantage of putting me in this kind of mood. I have no idea, I have like six of these, for when one writes one’s id, one should really not think about it too hard.
> 
> Spoilers for [The Game of God](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4592838), [Chapter 10](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4592838/chapters/11820554)

In the Pit, there is silence, the first in all of Time. That Crowley is the only one brave enough (or perhaps stupid enough) to enter says a great deal (though what, he's not sure, other than he's very stupid or very brave).

The bleak landscape is transformed into devastation; the burned out twilight sky stained crimson like fresh blood and spreading thin rays over the newly formed labyrinth of mountains and crevasses, abysses torn through solid stone. Distantly, he can sense the depth of the rack and the business of corruption continues as usual, their screams undiminished but unheard; he's not sure anything has ever been quite so unsettling as the realization that unnatural silence is artificially maintained and with so little effort.

Gone is where Alistair once sat in state, a gaudy potentate on the massive iron throne inlaid with human eyes and human bone, millennia of power pulsing around him; there's now a Black Mountain of jagged stone and icy steel piercing the bloody sky. There's no question of the completeness of the new ruler's conquest, but the sickening, spongy squish of red stone beneath him, the faint sobbing cries at every step, tells of brutality and ruthlessness beyond any nightmare in Hell.

That does answer the question Crowley had no desire to ask regarding what happened to those purged; they now pave the Pit itself.

Crossing a shadowy bridge that whimpers at every step, Crowley reminds himself he has nothing to fear (provided he's not stupid, of course); he's King of the Crossroads, inherited all of Lilith's power as well as her demesne, and is here by the invitation of the new Master of the Pit. (And he, for one, does not pretend the third isn't the only reason he's here at all: a fool he is not.)

At the base of the Black Mountain is a door, that opens of its own accord, allowing him within and revealing a narrow view of steep stairs that doubtless spiral upward a thousand miles. It's tempting to walk away, but the presence of shadowy watchers is enough to steel the same pride that once upon a time made an angel fall.

(He is not so much a fool as Lucifer, but he does understand how that sort of thing could happen. It's not hard, no.)

He hopes, however, there is no expectation he will climb a thousand miles of stairs. There is pride, and then there is far, far too many stairs.

His foot has only to touch the first before he's at the top, so smoothly he didn't feel the transition; for a moment, he wishes more than anything in all his existence that he'd run away or better yet, simply said no and never come at all.

At the top of the stairs is a door, a hundred feet tall and fifty feet wide, and this door the most disturbing thing of all; the elaborately created workings are all sigils, and he can read perhaps a fifth, protection he expected (the new Master of the Pit is no fool) but containment is new, so many bindings like threads, but together.... Mouth dry, Crowley watches the door open, spilling warm yellow light over a gleaming hardwood floor and then braces himself to step inside.

Within the door is a room, a perfect circle set with ten windows, over which the Master can view his entire domain; the room itself is as unsettlingly mundane as the landscape without is not. A wrought iron bed takes up one side, heavy drapery over airy gauze pulled shut against any trace of light; a fireplace crackles in a corner with a cheerful fire; a half dozen rugs spread against the cool of the floor scattered with sofas and chairs. Crowley doesn't allow himself to tense as the door swings closed; a torture chamber he'd expect, but not this.

"An improvement," he admits to the figure sprawled on the couch. "Your predecessor's taste was atrocious." Pacing around the room--and avoiding the bed, a warning unspoken but crystal clear--he admires the hangings, sigils wrought so cleverly they look like abstract designs before taking the chair across from the couch and takes in his first view of the Pit's new Master.

"Still working on it," he says, turning his head on the cushion with a wide grin, and Crowley just stops himself from flinching at the swell of effortless power in the wide green eyes that grin at him from the far too-pretty face of a man with a very different name.

That makes him curious. "Alistair," he says, and Alistair tilts his head in acknowledgement, waiting. "Dean?"

The grin widens at Crowley's shock. "Kept that one, too." Sitting up in a single movement, he shrugs. "In here, anyway. Out there, locked it down already."

Crowley nods his understanding of the impossibility of the second when the first is just as impossible. 

"Well started in your reign," Crowley says, balancing an ankle on his knee. "Thin of company, though."

"Got 'em on that," Dean says carelessly, calling in two dark brown bottles, one settling deliberately on the table nearest Crowley's hand. He doesn't touch it, and Dean looks his amusement. "No worries: I invited you, didn't I?"

That much is true, and while he dislikes being toyed with, Crowley reaches for the bottle, drinking what is--he must admit--truly excellent beer; Dean's taste is far better than he thought. 

"Pacification of one's territory is a matter of course, but that was--" An atrocity, even by the standards of Hell. Inspired, he can't help but admit; he'd just like to know how he did it. The dissolution and reduction were almost at once before fusion; the most brilliant part is they're all still there, ready for use. In case the new Master needs their service after all. "Thorough."

Dean's smile takes on something new and unsettling: fondness. "Yeah, it's awesome, right? Just let him have his head and let him work it out," Crowley doesn't stiffen, but it's very hard. "Had to go somewhere, not like he could turn it on me, right?" Sitting back, Dean takes a drink from the bottle, faint smile lingering. "That was the one thing I worried about, we always hate 'em--even Lilith," he says, meeting Crowley's eyes and he stills. "Just a little more than you loved her.

He takes a breath. "I didn't--"

"You did." Dean's expression softens. "Couldn't deal with that. Had to be a way around it, just wasn't sure if I pulled it off first try." He takes another drink, and for a discordant moment, Dean Winchester is before him. "But I did. Shouldn’t have doubted him. Best I ever made, right from the start."

Crowley has just enough time to start to put it together when there's a rustling sound from the bed, and Dean's attention snaps there despite no change in body or eyes. His eyebrows jump in amusement. "You can look."

Does he want to, is the question, but he already is; a pale hand slides to push the curtain back just as a pair of pale feet slide out and a glimpse of jeans. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean put down the bottle and stand up just as Castiel's head peers out, glazed blue eyes unseeing, and Crowley vanishes his own bottle before it can hit the floor.

He didn't expect this, and he should have. "You found him."

Dean flickers back a smile not unmixed with triumph. "Didn't need to. He came to me."

Castiel blinks slowly, frowning; even from where he is, Crowley can see the thousand cracks in the blue eyes, the lack of focus, volition still sharply limited; he's almost brand new, fresh off the rack. Which means...Castiel was on it. Even seeing the unmistakable evidence, it takes far too long for him to believe it.

Dean broke Castiel on the rack.

In the corner of his mind not frozen, Crowley now understands the reason for all the bindings, this room, perhaps even the existence of the mountain itself. The only doubt he has is if that's enough.

Pushing back the curtains, Dean tilts Castiel's face up to look in his eyes, and Castiel focuses all at once. "Look at you," Dean says softly, examining him for a long moment, and Crowley knows exactly what he's doing and why. Castiel isn't just very new; he's still forming and it seems Dean is guiding the process personally. Not many do, more fool they, but this is different; he's also controlling it. Crowley never doubted his skill (even Dean's predecessor didn't make that mistake), but he wouldn't have guessed even Dean could maintain this level of focused attention over every detail. "Feel better?"

Castiel nods dreamily; if Dean asked him to disembowel himself or if the sky were green, he'd give the same response. "Still tired," is barely a breath. "I can't--concentrate."

Considering what Dean is doing, Crowley's immensely surprised Castiel can even think, much less speak.

"No worries, always like this at first," Dean says, thumb tracing across Castiel's lower lip, and the faint rust-red streak matching the smear by the corner of Castiel's mouth answers another question he didn't know to ask. "You're doing fine."

Castiel tilts his head, tongue sliding over his lower lip uncertainly and brushing against the tip of Dean's thumb. "I don't like it. Here."

Dean's response isn't either discipline or even displeasure: he smiles, satisfaction radiating from him. "Course not," he agrees. "I'm not there." The uncertainty vanishes, and Castiel nods agreeably. "Come on, let's see how standing works for you."

 _We always hate 'em_ , Dean said; now, he thinks he's starting to understand what Dean wanted to do.

Stepping back, Dean helps Castiel to his feet, steadying him when his legs tremble like a newborn foal's. Crowley takes in the _Grateful Dead_ t-shirt, long arms bare and the healing traces of sigils tracing almost every inch of visible skin, hair a disaster, and step by step, Dean coaxes him back to the couch and easing him down until Dean's sprawled in the corner, Castiel stretched out on the couch, head resting in his lap. Stroking his hair back, Dean murmurs something, and the blue eyes fall half-closed as Castiel settles in closer and relaxes all at once.

"You realize his Brothers are going to discover where he is very soon?" The price on Castiel's head assures that.

Dean's expression doesn't change, but the room seems to drop several degrees. "They can't have him."

"If they claim him--"

"They can't," Dean interrupts, and Crowley fights back a shiver at the flat green eyes that meet his. "He's mine."

Castiel's eyes flicker half open, and Crowley doesn't miss the way Dean deliberately relaxes, shifting his attention to Castiel, stroking down his back soothingly and murmuring something that makes him smile as the blue eyes close. 

"Exhausted," Dean tells Crowley, stroking down Castiel's back again, and Castiel shifts into the touch like a cat. "Had a really long day. Or days, maybe: lost track. Getting him cleaned up after that was a bitch, but we got it done."

Crowley also thinks he may know how the Pit became paved, and if he's right, he should not be in this room, in the Pit, or for that matter, in Hell itself. Any question--any hope of a different answer--is denied him when Cas shifts enough for Crowley to see the back of his neck; he doesn't need to read it to know exactly what Dean put there.

Dean looks up and smiles and Crowley is the room with the Master of the Pit and an angel in Hell with full access to the entirety of the Master's power. The only reason he doesn't run now isn't that it wouldn't matter (he'd still try), but he can't quite get his legs to move.

"Does he know I'm here?"

Dean snorts. "This early? He's still under. Even if I didn't keep him there, wouldn't matter; you're not me, so he doesn't care."

Crowley reminds himself he was invited; if Dean wanted to kill him, apparently his location before now wouldn't have been a problem for him. "I must remark that the state of the Pit begs to differ on that point."

"Had to go somewhere," Dean says reasonably, looking down at Castiel, who is indeed doing something very much like sleeping, barely a slit of blue visible now. Crowley can't blame him; from here, he can sense that all of Castiel's energy is turned to reforming in the image Dean wants for him, and Dean's slowed the process to a crawl, assuring every detail is exactly as it should be before moving on. "Let him up to burn it out: can't argue with the results." He meets Crowley's eyes. "I couldn't let him hate me, come on. I promised him we'd fix that no matter how many times we had to start over."

Crowley nods: no, Dean wouldn't have accepted any failure there whatsoever, no matter how many times he had to do it. 

"Shouldn't have worried," Dean says, almost as if to himself. "First try, he was perfect. Alistair said they'd always be a disappointment, just deal, but Cas--I knew he wouldn't be."

Crowley nods again; time to get to the heart of this. "How long do I have to prepare?"

"I want the throne," Dean admits. "Reign and rule, it'll all be in my hand. Question is, do you _need_ to prepare?"

Crowley stares at him. 

"This is an offer," Dean says. "And believe it or not, it's open until I march on Crossroads. I won't do it until I have to, but when I do, I'll win."

"You can't think now--"

"Dude, I could do it before you could snap your fingers," Dean interrupts. "All I have to do is let Cas come back up and step back."

Crowley doesn't move.

"The Pit's nothing," he continues, green eyes calm. "That was just to take the edge off and sweetheart, you wouldn't believe what it took to bring him back down. This time, he starts, he won't stop, and sure, his Brothers might be able to slow him down--though I taught him enough I sincerely doubt it--but no one else is gonna survive." Crowley stiffens: a low, deep shudder runs through the Pit, somewhere far below bedrock and beneath all of Hell, trembling through his bones. "Sorry," he murmurs to Cas. "Hypotheticals, promise."

There's a pause, then slowly, reluctantly, the shudder stops. So this is what it feels like to be shaken: he can't say he ever was curious enough to want to experience it himself. "You're insane."

"Yeah, but I planned for that," Dean admits chillingly. "Share and share alike. It'll be fine, just a little more to go."

Crowley's eyes drift back to Castiel; not quite asleep, not quite aware, not interested at all. He'd never questioned himself if an angel could be broken on the rack; it was more a matter of what would be left and if it would be of any use. Castiel, on the other hand, would be immensely useful, but Crowley sincerely doubted if he could break or even know how if he wanted to. He still very much doubts the first, but the second--if it could be taught, that would be something Dean would do. So Castiel wouldn't hate him. And Castiel would want to learn, perhaps for the same reason.

"What are you offering?" It's not an admission or concession, but it very well might be the start of negotiations.

"Give me a list." If Crowley doubts Dean's ability (more in hope than anything), he can't Dean's confidence. "I'm pretty sure we can come to an agreement."

Then Castiel stiffens, and the very fabric of existence starts to bend around them; gripping the rapidly fluctuating chair, Crowley tries to access Crossroads and finds to his own horror it's--not there. Nothing is anywhere, and--

\--it stops.

Blinking slowly, Crowley takes in Dean sitting up with a wide smile, Castiel straddling his lap, one hand on his shoulder and looking vaguely startled. Crossroads is where it should be, and after confirming that twice, Crowley hesitantly opens his senses and finds--oh.

"Needed more space for the new paving," Dean says, looking up at Castiel. "Third one this week; you'd think they'd learn."

"You could stop encouraging them by leaving your borders so temptingly unprotected," Crowley says, and Dean gives him an acknowledging grin. Far more important than fear is the display; it usually takes far longer to gain that level of sensitivity. "He can feel it?"

"We both can," Dean answers, eyes unfocused. "Other reason I don't have anyone out there; Cas doesn't bother checking for friend or foe and I just can't bring myself to give a fuck." Dean wraps both arms around Castiel's waist and tugs him closer. "Skip the bullshit, right?"

Castiel looks down, and Crowley watches the slow smile, blue eyes clearing and giving Crowley a searing glimpse of what he'll be when Dean is done with him. "I can hear them screaming."

"Awesome, right? Told you." Dean relaxes back into the cushions. "Back down now, need your rest."

Castiel hesitates, and this time, Crowley's not surprised at the lack of discipline; watching Castiel finally settle back down beneath the slow, soothing strokes, he wonders if there's ever been a single Master who could use the carrot so well the stick was simply the lack of it. Start as you mean to go on and Dean's started very well indeed.

Far, far too well. "I'll need to think about it," he says finally.

"Invitation's always open," Dean tells him absently, threading his fingers through Cas's hair and Cas lifts his head. "When you use it though, come alone: admit one only."

He nods, rising to his feet, but pauses as Castiel brushes a kiss against Dean's lips, and sees the flicker in the blue eyes. The couch widens obligingly, and in a single sensual shift, Castiel eases himself back onto it, drawing Dean down to him with nothing more than a smile. 

Licking his lower lip, Castiel says, "Please," and before Crowley's fascinated eyes, the Master of the Pit forgets anyone and anything not the angel stretched out beneath him so obligingly.

Start as you mean to go on, Crowley thinks as he leaves the Black Mountain: Castiel, too, has started very well indeed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' (in the style of Bratfarrar)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5356157) by [ab-insula-Avalonia (AurumCalendula)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurumCalendula/pseuds/ab-insula-Avalonia)




End file.
